“I’m a nine,” he says, completely unprompted. “Maybe a nine-point-five. I’ve been at an eight for most of the season but tonight I’ve got extra. The extra is for us. For this.” He gestures broadly at the tunnel, the ice, the noise, the general concept of everything. “The extra is because we’re going to win this game and go to the playoffs and it’s going to be because of you, even though I’m probably going to score the goal.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I would never.” He’s already grinning. “I’ve got road flares in my bag, by the way. Just so you know.”
“Shep—”
“For the celebration. Obviously.”
“Where did you get road flares.”
“Hardware store. Same place as last time.” He taps the side of his helmet. “I’m consistent. It’s a virtue.”
Coach Duff appears at the mouth of the tunnel and silences both of us with a look that has been silencing locker rooms fordecades. He doesn’t say anything elaborate. He looks at the ice, looks at us, and says: “Let’s go.”
The first period is exactly what I expected.
Springfield comes out hard, physical, trying to establish the pace before we can find our legs. They’re good at this—grinding the early minutes, wearing teams down before the game opens up. I’ve watched their tape enough times to dream about their forecheck, which is saying something because my dreams are usually about practice sequences and occasionally the Post-it board, which Gisele would find very funny and I’m never going to tell her.
We match them. That’s the part that’s new—not fighting their physicality but absorbing it, moving through it, trusting that the game will open up if we’re patient. Three months ago I would have tightened the reins at the first sign of pressure. Would have called adjustments, demanded sharper execution, looked for the variables I could control.
Tonight I let it breathe.
The first period ends zero-zero, which is fine. It’s more than fine. It means we didn’t give them anything cheap and we’ve still got everything in front of us.
Between the first and second, Slammy takes the ice.
I watch from the tunnel with Shep while the crowd does whatever it is they’re about to do, and what they’re about to do—I realize immediately—is exactly what I should have predicted.
Slammy skates to center ice. Produces a microphone from somewhere in the costume, which I’m still not sure is physically possible given the size of that hammer head. Raises both arms.
“SORROWVILLE,” Slammy announces, voice echoing through the building. “HOW ARE WE FEELING TONIGHT?”
The building responds with the sound of long-suffering fans who have been containing something enormous all season and have just been given permission to let it out.
“I SAID,” Slammy continues, with the energy of someone who has been waiting for this moment for months, “HOW. ARE. WE. FEELING?”
The crowd does not so much answer as detonate.
“HAPPY?” Slammy holds up a sign—hand-lettered, clearly made in advance, which means someone planned this, which means someone knew what they were doing when they put a feelings education program on a hockey captain—and the sign says, in large letters, HAPPY.
The arena loses its mind.
“ARE WE HAPPY, SORROWVILLE? THE DICHOTOMY IS NOT LOST ON THIS TOOL!”
Four thousand people confirm that yes, they are happy, with a volume that I’m fairly certain is audible from the parking lot. From two parking lots away. Possibly from Chicago.
“ARE WE DETERMINED?”
The crowd growls.
“ARE WE READY?”
The building shakes.
Beside me, Shep watches this with an expression I don’t entirely have words for. Something that lives in the same neighborhood as pride but isn’t quite that—something warmer and more personal, the look of a man who understands what he’s watching and why it matters.
“You know,” he says quietly, “six months ago you couldn’t have told me what happy felt like.”
